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The Wabi-Sabi of Me
September 2, 2009
Look into uneven eyes and see star shine and melting glaciers.
See a wild mane of lion’s hair and find stalks of wheat in the harvest sun.
Gaze upon topographic landscapes of flesh and bone and see the goddess soul inside.
Capture a battered, broken heart and treat it like golden perfection, a thing admired.
Discover imperfections of existence and decide that flaws balance with strengths and together shall be whole.
A song that makes you sit and listen to the words and think…
Crayon Angel by Judee Sill
Crayon Angel songs are slightly out of tune
But I’m sure I’m not to blame.
Nothin’s happened but I think it will soon,
So I sit here waitin’ for God and a train,
To the Astral plane.
Magic rings I made have turned my finger green.
And my mystic roses died.
Guess reality is not as it seems,
So I sit here hopin’ for truth and a ride,
To the other side.
Phony prophets stole the only light I knew,
And the darkness softly screamed.
Holy visions disappeared from my view,
But the angels come back and laugh in my dreams,
I wonder what it means.
by Mary Elizabeth Frye:
Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.
Smoke without fire!
No thrill of tongues licks up
The offerings in the cup.
Dead falls desire.
Black smoke thou art,
O altar-flame, that dost dismember,
Devour the hearth, to leave no ember
To warm this heart
.…………………………….
These faint and fearful shores
Of time are beaten by the surge of sense,
Love worn away – by love? – to indifference.
Who knows what god – or demon – she adores?
Or in what wood she shelters, or what grove
Sees her profane our sacrament of love?
.…………………………….
These faint and fearful shores
Of time are beaten by the surge of sense,
Love worn away – by love? – to indifference.
Who knows what god – or demon – she adores?
Or in what wood she shelters, or what grove
Sees her profane our sacrament of love?
~~ Aleister Crowley
